Gerard Bolivar and the Song of the Seraph
by Mr.Sweet-and-Awful
Summary: The year is 2023. Harry Potter is dead, and Gerard Bolivar of the Auror's Office suspects murder. Meanwhile, Roman McKinsey, a brilliant student turned terrorist, launches a worldwide campaign of violence and bigotry rivaling that of Tom Riddle- all in the name of God. And at Hogwarts School, a certain shy witch gives the sorting hat its toughest job yet.
1. McKinsey's Rose

_****Author's Note: It may be for the best if you viewed this entry not so much as the First Chapter, but as a Prologue. Now, obviously, Mrs. Rowling didn't utilize Prologues in her series, but, thematically, this piece is best read under pretense of a Prologue._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**McKinsey's Rose**

* * *

"Roman, dear, it's wonderful to see you."

The woman opened her arms, and Roman entered them, embracing her like a nephew might embrace a beloved aunt.

"You too, Professor Ennis."

They exchanged pleasantries, and the woman led Roman to sit in an ornate wicker chair in the garden while she hurried off to prepare tea.

Roman ran a hand through his feathery blonde hair, and sighed. So much had been done that day, yet there was so much left to do. And this would undoubtedly be a tiring portion of his work– he knew that already.

The young man liked Professor Ennis a good deal. She was by far his favorite professor in his school days, despite her being head of Ravenclaw (Roman was a proud Hufflepuff). She was Professor of Muggle Studies, and she was one of the most intelligent women Roman had ever had the pleasure to speak with; one of the prettiest, too. He respected her.

He feared that would make his work even more difficult.

Ennis arrived shortly, placing a tray of tea and lemon bars before Roman on a table that matched the chair he sat in. She took a seat across from him and passed him a teacup. Roman was amused to find that she remembered him well enough to assume he'd take his tea free of addition.

"Professor, you didn't even offer me any sugar."

She smiled, "I know you, and your taste in tea, better than that, Mr. McKinsey."

"Earl Grey, too. You must remember me well."

"Well of course, dear. You're unique. It's not often a student poses me a thought provoking question, and it's hard to forget those countless hours spent in my office being bombarded with your latest discoveries. I appreciated it. You were refreshing."

Roman chuckled. "Refreshing! I like that."

The woman poured her own cup of tea, mixed in a splash of cream, and took a cautious sip. "Well, Roman, how are things? I hope you've been applying that mind of yours to something more than Quidditch."

"Oh yes ma'am. I have several projects in the works. One of which I came here to discuss, actually."

"Oh? Interesting. Anything in the way of actual employment? You'd be a shoe-in for the Institute of Muggle Studies."

Roman tried to stifle a flinch as she said this, and hoped it wasn't noticed. "Well, I'm not so sure about that, Professor. But yes, I've actually been working with the Daily Prophet. I write an anonymous advice column."

"Roman McKinsey, a journalist? My! Not the first thing I would've pictured you doing, for sure. I suppose I imagined something more– you know–"

"Well paying?"

Ennis laughed a tiny, pretty laugh. "Yes, I suppose that is what I imagined. Well let's hear about this project of yours."

"Wonderful. Would mind too terribly, professor, if we walked and talked?" Roman looked about the garden, "This landscape is just lovely."

Professor Ennis assured him that she wouldn't mind at all, and so they began to walk.

"My current project," Roman began, "is an extension of many of my ideas regarding Wizarding archaeology. Do you recall any of those, by chance, Professor?"

"Oh yes," she said, "how could I forget? I've picked up many of those paths of study myself, since you left. Your essays on the New Testament alone were– well, just wonderful."

"Thank you. Interesting you mention that, Professor. That is some of what I came here to discuss with you."

By this time, they had arrived at a rose bush. It was obviously magically amplified; it was impossibly large, gave off on unbelievably pleasant scent, and it's petals ranged in color from white to black.

Roman stopped here, and gazed into a lovely bright purple rose that caught his eye. "Professor," he said, "suppose we– you and I, I mean; witches and wizards– suppose we are the true Mankind?"

Ennis considered this with a slight look of confusion. "Well, Roman. That's… that's an odd thing to say."

"How so?"

"Well," Ennis began. She looked about, and struggled to find an answer. "It's just not a well supported idea, Roman. And it reeks of Riddleism."

Roman chuckled a bit, almost inaudibly. "I do so hate that term. But really, Professor– why not? We are the most well endowed, compared to our Muggle counterparts, yes?"

"Yes, Roman, but–"

"And are you a Christian woman, Professor?"

Ennis stopped mid-sentence, and her mouth hung open. It was obvious she found his current line of questioning strange. "I don't see what that has to do with it, Roman."

"Are you though?"

"Well yes. Yes, you must've known that, dear."

"Well tell me, Professor," Roman said. He reached out and grabbed his purple rose by the stem. There were no thorns. "Why would our God create a race with our natural gift, if he did not mean them to be unique?"

"Well Roman we are unique. You said it yourself– wizardry is the uniqueness, in and of itself! We are still human beings, Roman, just as the Muggles are."

"I don't think so."

Professor Ennis stared at him, wide-eyed. Roman didn't look back. His gaze was fixed on the impossibly beautiful rose. "What? Excuse me, but– what the hell do you mean you don't think so?"

"Just what I said."

Ennis was speechless. For a short while, she said nothing. And then, "Roman, I think these are– dangerous ideas you're throwing about. Just think–"

Roman laughed, in earnest. A deep, audible laugh. "Yes, you're right about that, Professor. They are dangerous. This Ministry is infested with thieves and traitors. I could very well be silenced for what I am becoming."

"What you're becoming? And what the bloody hell do you mean thieves? What exactly do they steal?"

"Our God given gift."

With a deft movement of his right hand, Roman plucked the purple rose, and inserted the stem into a buttonhole of his jacket. Ennis was, evidently, in shock. She still said nothing.

"I rather like this rose. I do. I hope you don't mind if I take it. You see, ma'am, I envy people like you, who are content with empty beauties like this. To grow, prune, and, make perfect something like this… it's a beautiful thing. I'm not content with it. I never have been."

"Roman," the Professor said. She grabbed his right hand in both of hers. "We need to discuss this. You're acting strange. Something's changed, dear, and that frightens me."

Roman tried to snatch his hand back as delicately as possible. "Professor, I've not changed, I promise you. I've only come closer and closer to the truth. I've not changed though.

"I've always envied your kind, those who could enjoy things because they're enjoyable. Guys who were content to spend their days snogging on the lakefront, or glorifying themselves on the Quidditch pitch. That's what I wanted to be. I tried all of that. I tried most everything, Professor. I was never happy. And it's because, all that time, I was being called to something greater."

Roman McKinsey closed his eyes, and raised his head to the sky. He sighed. "I came here to let you repent, Professor. To repent while you can."

"Roman, I think it's best you leave–"

Sweat was beading on Roman's forehead in the August sun. "Mrs. Ennis, my colleagues and I have thus far today visited twenty-two other reputable witches and wizards. Only three of them repented. We killed the nineteen that didn't."

The sureness, the serenity, with which Roman said this threw Ennis off for a moment. The words at first didn't register. "You've what?"

"Mrs. Ennis," Roman said, "This day will, henceforth, be known as the First Purge. I'll ask you now. The final hour is here. Do you repent?"

Roman lowered his head, and locked eyes with Professor Ennis, his intense brown irises meeting her lovely green. Roman had long since noticed the fashionable, dainty looking wand holster she kept tied around her calf. An auburn lock of hair fell in her face as she reached for it.

Her hand had not long reached the hilt of her wand before Roman's had fallen from his coat sleeve to hand, and was waved in a calculated slashing motion. He uttered the word "Sectumsempra".

The woman collapsed. Blood spread out quickly and soaked the front of her dress. Her face was soon rendered unrecognizable in the red ooze.

Roman took a deep breath, and, wand still in hand, bowed his head. He said a prayer.

He lifted up his head, and tears were running down both sides of his face. "May our Father in Heaven forgive you for this, Professor."


	2. The Man Who Died

**Chapter 2**

******The Man Who Died**

* * *

Gerard Bolivar, of the Office of Aurors, was not in the greatest of moods. For one, Harry Potter had recently died. Secondly, all evidence seemed to point to Mr. Potter's death by murder. And three, (and perhaps most regrettably, even) Gerard was on the fast track to becoming Head Auror.

Bolivar felt terribly ashamed of his current inability to cry. It wasn't for lack of lamentation for the Boy Who Lived, because Gerard had felt absolutely broken up inside since Mr. Potter's death; Mr. Bolivar felt as if a precious part of himself had fallen off a shelf and shattered. (Even worse, Bolivar secretly feared that an accidental nudge of his own arm might have led to that fall.)

But he could not cry. He was too nervous to cry. Gerard was a man more likely to cry in those rare moments of euphoria than in the seemingly endless, tedious bulk of life's tragedies. For instance, Gerard cried when he was twenty years old, and married to Mrs. Celty Bolivar (formerly Hemsworth). He cried when he was twenty-three, at the birth of his daughter Corah. He cried profusely at the age of twenty-seven when his last daughter, Gina, was born, but this cry was due in large part to a nasty injury sustained on the same day, with close friend Tantalus Merriwether, in an experimental attempt to combine Quidditch, Gobstones, and Wizard Chess into one glorious triad.

Speaking of Tantalus: he seemed to have no trouble crying. The gawky, mopheaded man from the Department of Magical Games and Sports was walking alongside Gerard as they made their way through the thick crowding of a London sidewalk. The two had just left an enormous joint-department Ministry briefing, where they were informed that they, along with all other Ministry employees (besides the stand-bys that were necessary to keep the country from falling apart), would have the rest of the day off to grieve the Boy Who Lived. The briefing, at a certain point, became less a matter of business and more an impromptu memorial service. Everyone cried. Everyone but Gerard.

Tantalus mostly walked without saying a word, his red, puffy, tear-streaked face parallel with his shoes. It was a far cry from the usual Tantalus Merriwether, whose most famous accolade was holding the Hogwarts student record for most times being thrown out of the library for noise violations in a single year. He had racked up seventy-three of those dismissals, rumored to number more than both of the Weasley twins combined.

Gerard didn't like this silent Tantalus. Gerard was the quiet one, and Mr. Merriwether had no business shaking up the dynamic of their friendship at this late hour, as far as he was concerned. So he said, "Tan, where you wanna go for lunch, mate? No Chinese, though. I know you love it, but I've long grown weary of the stuff."

As long as his hair hung down in front of his face, it was rather hard to tell whether or not Tantalus looked over to Gerard, but Gerard assumed he did not. All that could be heard in reply to Gerard's request was a mostly imperceptible, "Iontca."

"What?"

"Isediontca."

"Speak up!"

Tantalus lifted his head in a flurry of golden locks. "I said I don't care, Gerard! Mr. Potter," tears began to well up in his eyes, "Mr. Potter will never eat lunch again, so why should I?"

"Oh, come off it. Listen here, Tantalus." Gerard wrapped his arm around Tantalus's shoulder. "If Harry were here right now, you know what he'd say?"

"What?"

"'I think the Cannons have it this season.'"

Tantalus wrenched himself free of Gerard's arm and planted a punch on the shoulder connected to it. "Jesus, Gerard! Show some respect, why don't you? This is a solemn day! You were the only one back at the Ministry, as far as I could tell, who didn't even pretend to shed a tear; and you and Mr. Potter were so close! I don't understand, man, I don't."

"I can't grieve when I'm nervous."

"That doesn't make any sense. And what's to be nervous about?"

"Things I'm not allowed to tell you at the moment. Actually," Gerard had to think for a moment, to mentally sort through the various classified and declassified data he held, "there's a bit I could tell you. If we'll ever find a damned place to sit down, that is."

"Chinese place?"

Gerard smiled, his spirits lifted slightly by the momentary return of the much preferred Tantalus the Obnoxious

Eventually, Gerard was able to force the grief stricken Mr. Merriwether into a large, comfortably impersonal sandwich shop. Tantalus would have nothing but coffee (with copious amounts of cream and sugar, of course) until Gerard threatened him serious bodily harm if he didn't get a hold of himself and "eat something, dammit."

As Tantalus finished a very puny ham sandwich, and Mr. Bolivar was making progress on a second roast beef and Swiss, the conversation turned back to Harry Potter.

"So they just found him there, lying dead in his own backyard? In Godric's Hollow?"

"Yes, something like that."

Tantalus sighed. "Just like his parents, eh?"

"Well we can't be so sure of that." Gerard became rather flustered, but he did his best to play it off, by releasing as nervous laugh. "Who's to say it was murder? For all you–" Gerard paused, feeling that better wording was needed. "For all the general public knows, it could have been simple heart failure. Or any number of things."

Tantalus grinned a little. "Heart failure? I think not. For his age, I'd never seen a man in better shape than Mr. Potter. He was as good a Seeker yesterday as he was in the '90s playing for Gryffindor. Perhaps better."

"Well strange things happen, Tantalus. Stranger have certainly happened before."

"But," Tantalus looked back and forth with a nervous look in his eyes, "between you and me, what does your office think? The Aurors? Do they suspect … er, you know. Foul play?"

Gerard considered the question for a moment, then sighed and answered, "There is a distinct possibility of it, yes."

"A distinct possibility, eh?" This came not from Tantalus, but from a voice positioned roughly two or three feet above Gerard's head. A hand clasped his should, and Gerard's own hand went instinctively for the wand in his jacket.

"Easy there, Bolivar." The man to which the voice belonged took an empty seat at the side of the table. He was tall, with slicked back hair the color and consistency of penguin feathers, or perhaps wet licorice. He was clad in a tan suit that could only reasonably be described as dapper. "It's just me."

Indeed it was him, but his statement was not altogether true; there was another man, taking a seat at the fourth and final vacant chair, who looked possibly just as much a rogue as the first man.

"Heart failure? Hah!" said the penguin-hair man in the dapper suit. His name was Hollis Belmont, and Gerard was well acquainted with him, and his companion, whose name was Shawn Dukes. The two worked in the Investigation Department, a subdepartment of the Auror Office, and to say that Gerard did not care for the two would be inaccurate. There was a much stronger bond of resentment between Gerard and the pair than that. They'd all entered Hogwarts the same year, and Shawn and Hollis had been nothing but trouble since.

"What's that supposed to mean, Belmont?" Gerard asked.

Hollis smirked. "Nothing, Gerard. I just think you'll need a better coverup than that for the MLP."

Now Shawn took a turn addressing Gerard. "Don't play stupid, Gerard. You were the first man that came to mind when I heard about Potter's death, you were."

Gerard didn't say anything. As previously mentioned, Gerard was a quiet man, and exceedingly so when he was angry.

And Gerard was very, very quiet now.

Belmont guffawed. "You thought no one would catch on, eh? I know you wanted Head Auror, Gerard, but this is something I thought below even the likes of you."

Gerard got ever quieter, if that was at all possible. His silence had become a tangible thing, almost. A fifth guest at the table.

Shawn Dukes had his say again. "Well. What you got to say? Not even going to defend yourself, you scoundrel?"

Gerard sort of felt like punching someone.

"After all Mr. Potter did for you," Dukes went on, "and this is how you repay him?"

Gerard really felt like punching someone.

"You disgust me. Who's next, huh? The bloody Minister? Well believe you me, Bolivar, the Department's hot on your trail. Best be putting your affairs in order."

Gerard decided that, if he must punch someone, this man with his chatter would be the perfect candidate.

So, his silence in tow, Gerard stood up, and swung his fist directly against the nose of Shawn Dukes.


	3. An Interrupted Loneliness

**Chapter 3  
An Interrupted Loneliness  
**

* * *

How does a woman go fourteen years not knowing her husband is a _wizard_?

This was, to some degree, what filled Lauren's mind as the Hogwarts Express chugged down the tracks away from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, her father, waving, shrinking into the distance. She had been rather occupied with this thought in the few months that had passed since the arrival of a certain letter; a letter which, in fact, informed her that not only was she herself a witch, but that she had a place at a _school _for magical people. Magical people like her. Like her father. Not her mother, though. That much was apparent. The loud, terrifying arguments that took place amongst her parents (arguments which she had until that point had been alien to her household) after the arrival of her letter told her that much.

These thoughts only filled her mind to some degree, though, because a good portion of her consciousness was devoted to the intense, nauseating fear she held at the prospect of beginning life at her new school.

It was not only the fact that it was a _magical _school that frightened Lauren. She was terrified at the prospect of entering into any new school, even one of the normal sort. Lauren hated making new friends. It was, perhaps, a character flaw of hers, but a present trait nonetheless. At long last she had, more or less, secured two good friends at her previous school. All for naught, she supposed. Now all to look forward to was the awkward, self-conscious solitude that had characterized most of her school years.

A solitude which had thus far functioned rather smoothly, as Lauren was able to find an empty compartment of the train to sit prospect of having to inject herself into some already active social group whilst aboard the Hogwarts Express terrified her, possibly more than the prospect of meeting her Housemates. (She was hoping for Hufflepuff. Her father was a Slytherin in his school days, but she supposed less would be expected of a Hufflepuff.)

She'd spent her time on the train sitting and looking over some of her schoolbooks. She was growing rather confused with _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ by Quentin Trimble, and considering picking up one of the Muggle books she had in her possession (Lauren, though not one to be prepared in much else, was always adequately stocked with reading material). Then, quite suddenly, the door to her compartment was wrenched open, and, quite as suddenly, rushed in a person, slamming the door behind them. Not only a person, but a _boy_, of all things. A freckled, glasses-clad boy with a mop of brown hair that was just slightly backcombed, but on the whole rather unruly. He was breathing heavily.

Lauren sat, petrified, trying and failing not to stare at the boy. He still hadn't said a word, but only stood, pale and gasping. Finally, Lauren managed to mumble, "May I help you?"

"Well", the boy said, turning to look out the window of the compartment door, "yes you can. Are these seats taken? Would you mind too terribly my sitting here?"

Contrary to the words coming out of her mouth assuring the boy that she did not mind, she did mind. She minded quite intensely. For not only did she want to maintain her comfortable solitude, but she had never excelled at speaking with boys.

"I'm sorry for barging in like that, I hope you'll understand. My... _acquaintance_", the boy said the word with a half snarl, "a first-year like myself, goes by the name of Reggie, was being the obnoxious little snot he truly is. Bought a _toad_of all things. A toad! Can you imagine?"

Lauren was not sure how to respond. Rather than a toad, her father had purchased her a barn owl, whom Lauren had named Milo. Lauren decided she'd just nod slightly and give an affirmative mumble. It was her usual social stratagem.

"Well I just can't abide toads. Not one bit. So Reggie decides it'd be a bloody nice idea to chase me around the train with the stupid thing."

Lauren again nodded, and felt terribly boring. Though the boy scarce gave her room to speak even if she had the ability to do so. He spoke with a agile, nervous, ferocity.

"I'm sorry for going on and on like that. Happens when I'm frightened. Though I do feel slightly emasculated in telling you how scared I was of a toad. And what else, I seem to have forgotten my manners." He extended a hand. "I'm Winston O'Malley."

If there was one thing Lauren had more difficulty with than speaking to people, it was touching them. Nonetheless, she gingerly took Winston's hand, with a small polite smile. "I'm Lauren."

"Nice to meet you, Lauren."

A rather awkward silence hung in the air. Lauren supposed it would be rude to pick a book back up. Winston, meanwhile, looked about the compartment, drumming his fingers on the seat. He seemed to Lauren very nervous and wound up. She imagined him to be the type that would be much quieter were there more than one stranger in front of him.

"So, uh, Lauren. What House are you hoping for?"

"Oh. Hufflepuff, I suppose."

Winston seemed surprised. "Really? Why's that?"

"They seem to be simplest. I'm not really all that interesting, you know. I'm not particularly brave, or ambitious, or clever, really."

"Oh come now, I'm sure that's not true. Anyway, Hufflepuff's probably not that bad. You just don't hear many people _preferring _to get it. People say they're a lot of duffers. But my mum was in Hufflepuff, and she's actually rather smart."

"Oh." said Lauren. It was one of her favorite words.

In danger of another awkward silence, Winston began again. "But you can't say you're not interesting or whatever. Everyone's interesting." He grinned. "I bet you're so interesting, they have to make a fifth house just for you. Could you imagine?"

Lauren blushed, another thing she did very frequently. "That would be something, wouldn't it?"

"It would. You'd even get to name it. What's your last name?"

"Volkov."

"Well there you go! The House of Volkov. That would sound amazing!"

To her surprise, Lauren found herself giggling slightly. She was finding herself increasingly comfortable with this Winston. So much so that she even ventured a question. "Well, what House would you prefer?"

"Besides Volkov House? I'd very much like Ravenclaw. I'm not exceedingly clever, really, but I figure Ravenclaws would be well stocked on books and things. And I'll need books. You know there are no electronics at Hogwarts, right?"

Lauren was aware of this. Her father had mentioned it to her, and it wasn't much of an issue for Lauren. She could easily wean herself off most anything. "Yes, my dad told me."

"Well I'm not sure how well I'm going to do without the internet. No internet, ever! Can you imagine? I... I spend a lot of time on the internet. I'm probably addicted. But I like reading as well. So I figure I can just read more, and it won't be a problem. Maybe."

"Maybe."

"So Lauren, if you don't mind me asking, are you Mu-", Winston, however, did not finish his question, for the door had once again been wrenched open, with another boy rushing in, albeit a much shorter boy, with very short hair and without glasses.

"Reggie I swear if you bring that stupid toad in here I will murder you!"

"Oh calm down, Winnie the Pooh." The boy did have the toad in his hand, but he promptly stuffed it into his back pocket. Lauren did not imagine this to be a very comfortable arrangement for the toad. He turned to Lauren. "That's what I call him, Winnie the Pooh. Winston, Winnie. Get it?"

The boy had an interesting accent that Lauren assumed to be American. She nodded in response to his question.

"Anyway." He turned back to Winston. "There's some older kids about to fight. Right inside the train! Seriously, come on."

"You're just going to throw that toad on me!"

"No I'm not, stop being such a baby. Come on before you miss it."

Warily, Winston stood up and walked out the door. Lauren had become curious too. She walked to the open door and leaned her head out ever so slightly.

It was true. Two older boys, at least fifth or sixth year by the look of them, were in the aisle, apparently ready to come to blows. Other students were leaning out of their compartments to witness the event, with a few brazen enough to stand in the aisle to watch, like Reggie.

Lauren could not exactly hear the exchange between the two boys, but she could tell that one was a Slytherin, and the other a Ravenclaw. Eventually, much to Reggie's chagrin, the two boys stomped off in opposite direction, fuming.

Reggie and Winston piled into the seat across from Lauren. Reggie didn't bother to ask if the seat was taken, but, apparently forgetting the toad in his back pocket, sat and promptly leaped up. He took the toad out, sat down, and rested it on his lap.

Winston cringed away from him.

"Oh come on, relax, I'm not going to touch you with it."

"You'd better not, Reggie. You will regret it. I'm serious. I'm completely serious now."

Reggie mocked Winston in a very poorly articulated Irish accent. "_Oh Reggie I'm completely serious now_. You're funny."

Winston settled slightly. Only slightly. His eyes kept darting back to the toad in Reggie's lap.

"Well", he finally said, "aren't you going to introduce yourself, you brute?"

"Um. Hey, I'm Reggie. Reggie Sten."

"I'm Lauren Volkov."

"Volkov. Are you, like, Russian?"

("Please excuse him." Winston interjected.)

"Well. My father is Russian. So I suppose I am."

With wide mouthed fascination, Reggie exclaimed, "Sweet! Say some Russian stuff."

("I'm so sorry", Winston said.)

Lauren's face reddened. Not the sort of warm pink blush that followed the compliment from Winston, but a feverish red burning that indicated her displeasure upon being put on the spot. "I actually just speak English." she muttered.

"Oh. That sucks."

Winston cleared his throat. "Well, since Reggie here is so content to, you know, completely disregard any social etiquette, I suppose we can pry into his nationality. You're probably wondering where he gets the strange accent from."

"You're the one with a weird accent, Winnie the Pooh."

"Well, he's not long been living in Ireland as a naturalized citizen."

"Dude, I can tell her. I'm not a little kid." Reggie said to Winston, who gave Reggie a look that seemed to imply a certain skepticism with his latter assurance.

"He was trying to tell you", Reggie went on, "that I'm American, but about a year ago we moved to Ireland. No real reason, really, my parents are just crazy about, you know, Irish and British stuff and whatever. Anyway, they aren't magical or anything, but turns out I am. And I guess I was in Ireland long enough for them to send to me a letter."

Winston clapped lightly. "Bravo. That was more eloquent than I could have managed, definitely."

In retaliation, Reggie brandished his toad at Winston, and Winston released a short sharp squeak. Lauren couldn't help but chuckle at the two of them.

Reggie was laughing too, but almost exclusively at Winston's expense, it would seem. "Well, I'll see you guys later. I'm gonna go buy some candy or something."

"You know the candy trolley will make its way down here, right? It is a trolley, after all."

Reggie glared at him. "Don't get smart with me Winnie." With that, he left.

Kicking his feet up into the seat and reclining himself, Winston sighed. "That", he said, "is probably the stupidest boy I know. He also happens to have become my best friend of sorts."

Lauren, as usual, wasn't entirely sure how to respond. She decided on "Oh".

"Yeah, but I can't be choosy with my friends." He laughed slightly. "I'm not exactly a social butterfly. I'm not sure whether I prefer it this way, or despise it."

"I understand completely", Lauren said immediately. Because she really _did _understand completely. But the eagerness behind her reply wound up embarrassing her, and again she blushed.

"Do you now? Well that's good to know. But please, don't get me wrong. Reggie's a good fellow. Just stupid." Winston sat up and looked out the window of the compartment door. "Well, would you look at that. The sweets trolley. Three Sickles says Reggie went the wrong way looking for it."

Lauren still blushed, but now she smiled as well.


End file.
